


Detonate

by turncloak



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, also this is ancient, little bit of Ariadne/Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 07:23:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13519320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turncloak/pseuds/turncloak
Summary: Arthur's never been good with words. Not ever.





	Detonate

**Author's Note:**

> this was written back in 2010 and posted on lj about a month after inception released. posting it here bc lj is sketchy af and i don't want to risk losing it, but be warned that it hasn't been edited since 2010 and thus you must deal with my subpar, old writing.
> 
> someday i might go back and rework this but that day is not today.

When Arthur meets Eames, he doesn't know that he's triggered an explosive, and that the fuse will burn for years.  
  
All he knows, in that instant where they clasp hands in the middle of an almost empty room, with Cobb standing off to their left, arms folded across his chest as he surveys them, is that he hates the way he smiles, and how he wishes he wouldn't. All he knows is that Eames squeezes his hand a second too long, fingers slipping against his wrist as he lets go, and that his expression fumbles confusedly, and that Eames  _laughs at him_.  
  
And perfectly calm, controlled,  _steady_  Arthur decides right then that he'd very much like to curl his fingers in that carefully pressed jacket of his, shove him violently against the table behind him until the papers covering it fly and scatter into the air, and punch him in the face.   
  
Hard.   
  
Three times.   
  
Until he fucking bleeds and spits blood onto the hardwood.  
  
But Cobb is watching, and perfectly calm, controlled, steady Arthur straightens and smiles until his face hurts, and it's not until that night, when he's shrugging off his jacket and slumping onto the sofa in his hotel room, that he realizes his wallet is missing.  
  
He checks the floor, checks under the bed, under the fucking pillows, and then slides one hand into his back pocket, pulling out a crisp white card covered with ten neatly printed digits. He crumples the card with Eames's phone number into a tiny, jagged ball and throws it at the wastebasket.  
  
And misses.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
They work in relative peace for four months until one day mid-winter, where Eames leans too close and whispers something against his ear, something low and foul that makes his gut wrench so hard he swears he'll be sick. Arthur loses his patience and really  _does_  shove him against a table, punching him square in the face, hooking him across the jaw.   
  
He only manages to hit him one and a half times, his second falling short, because Cobb is on him, grabbing his arms and yanking him back,  _Arthur, what the hell are you doing?_ , but Arthur can't hear or see  _shit_  because Eames is wiping blood from his bottom lip, because Eames is still laughing at him, and he's never hated someone so much.  
  
That's the month where he takes up smoking, and he only quits when Eames finds him outside, cigarette in hand. He snags it from his fingers and crushes it under the heel of his expensive shoes and says, "That'll kill you, you know," and steals every carton he buys until Arthur doesn't buy them anymore.  
  
  

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
Eames doesn't get pissed off. It takes Arthur weeks and weeks to learn this. Because he doesn't get pissed off, it's impossible  _to_  piss him off, impossible to incite some sort of reaction from him that would justify Arthur in his overwhelming need to beat the fucking shit out of him. It's not a question of  _how_  he'll do it; Arthur already knows that he can.  
  
Because Eames is broad and wide, but Arthur is quicker, and childishly, he's daydreamed of all the different ways he'd grind his face against a wall until Eames lost all ability to smile, until his teeth shattered to pieces in his mouth.  
  
But that never happens.   
  
Arthur sees him angry only once, two years after he's met him, and it'd been his mistake to walk in on it, on Eames in the bathroom, his hand bleeding, glass littering the linoleum floor at his feet. His apology sticks in his throat, and he turns to leave, but Eames walls him so fast he doesn't have time to react, his skull cracking against the aged floral wallpaper at his back.  
  
The only thought that crosses his mind, when Eames pries his mouth open and kisses him, when Eames presses so close it aches, is that he tastes like sugar and red wine. His next thought, when Eames pulls away and leaves him flattened against the bathroom wall, breathing raggedly, hands shaking, is that he still hates him.   
  
And his last thought is  _fuck you, goddamnit_ , because it shouldn't have gone like that.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  
Then there's Ariadne, awkwardly worming her way into his life out of nowhere, and Arthur thinks that he could love her.  
  
Then she turns to him and smiles, ducking her head as her lips curve upward, as she nervously fiddles with that damn scarf tucked around her neck, and Arthur thinks, no.  
  
No.  
  
He already loves her.  
 

 

 

* * *

 

  
Except it's fall, and he already loves her and her soft smiles and her soft hair, but he's standing with Eames in a completely empty room, and he doesn't know how to stop him when he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, crosses over to him, fists his fingers in his hair and drags their mouths together. Cobb isn't around to say anything, to stop either of them. Cobb isn't around so Arthur can't pretend to be perfectly calm, controlled, steady.  
  
He crumbles to pieces against Eames's hands, crushed like the glass on that linoleum floor at Eames's feet, and when Eames fucks him against a window where anyone looking in could  _see_ , Arthur drags his fingers against his back, tracks bruises wherever he touches him, and holds onto him like he doesn't want to let him go.  
  
And he doesn't hate him the way he used to anymore, but.

  

 

* * *

 

  
It's not fair.  


 

 

* * *

   
  
It's not fair the way Eames holds him down and smooths his hands against his sides, over his ribs, over the scar on his belly until he's stroking his fingers over his cock and squeezing, until Arthur twists and moans beneath him. Eames fucks just the way he smiles, teasing and slow and  _controlling_ , his hand forcing Arthur's head up, fingers digging too hard into his throat until he has to gasp for breath every time Eames thrusts into him, fills him, because it's too much, it's too fucking much.  
  
Eames mouths kisses against his shoulder, drags his tongue over the curve of his spine, all the way to the back of his neck, and the entire time he's fucking Arthur to  _tears_ , his throat raw, his fingers scrabbling desperately against the rickety wooden table he's sprawled across, he's whispering.  
  
Then those whispers turn into murmurs, and those murmurs turn into laughs, and Arthur can barely understand what he's saying, too focused on breathing, on not dying, oh god, he can't breathe, he can't breathe and he's going to die like this, too hard and on the verge of splitting in half. But through the fog, he can make out patches of words every now and then, unfinished sentences that barely make sense.   
  
\-- best you can do, love? Maybe I should stop, you seem a little worked up. Is that better? No? Is this?  _Louder_ , Arthur, honestly, I can barely hear you.  
  
Arthur's fingers turn into his palm, nails digging into sweaty skin, and he hits his fist against the table, his eyes burning, because Eames is so good at teasing, at prying him apart and driving into him (like now, right now, when he shoves Arthur's cheek against the surface in front of him and fucks into him  _slow_ ) until Arthur doesn't remember how to tell left from right, until Arthur forgets all about rules and lines and morals and logical paradoxes. But he never stops talking, teeth dragging against his ear, rocking against him, and his teasing turns as dirty and obscene as his mouth.  
  
He knows just what he's doing, and it's not until Arthur is a babbling incoherent mess, almost sobbing, his entire body shaking as he presses back against Eames, as he tries to grind against those fingers working agonizingly slow over his cock, that he tightens his hand around him, squeezes harder, and jerks him off until Arthur comes so hard and so fast it nearly blinds him.  
  
And nothing makes sense for those few seconds where he can't feel or see anything except that slow rolling wave of hothot _heat_  that drags him down, down, but he's aware enough to make out the three words that Eames pants against his hair in the dark, cramped room.  
  
I love you.  
  
  

 

 

* * *

 

  
That night, Ariadne sleeps in his arms, curled against his chest like a child, and Arthur can't bring himself to look away from her.  
  
He's achey and sick, his skin cold and clammy, and he strokes his fingers through her hair, drags a dark strand behind her ear. She shifts against him, tucking her hand underneath her chin, her nose brushing against his shoulder, and Arthur just stares at her. He only closes his eyes when his throat seizes up, and he realizes he wants to cry.  
  
  

 

* * *

 

  
Arthur's never been good with words. Not ever.  
  
What he wants to say to the man in front of him, the one who has him backed against a closet door, his fingers curled next to his head, is that he still hates the way he smiles and how he looks at him as if he can see right through him. What he wants to say is that he wishes Eames wouldn't touch him, because it  _hurts_ , it burns and throbs and aches in ways he's never thought possible.   
  
He wants to say that Eames shouldn't love him, because Arthur doesn't love him, except that's not exactly right, is it. He wants to say that he hates him as much as he wants him, and that it's Eames's fault, it's all his fault, why did he do this, why is he doing this.  
  
He wants to tell him to step the fuck back and leave, to stay where he is, to never go away, to shut the fuck up and kiss him. That he's taken all his control from him, ripped it from him, left him bleeding, and he wants it back, how fucking dare you, no, don't leave.  
  
Don't leave, because he doesn't remember how to put himself back together again, and Eames is the only one who knows how.   
  
But he doesn't say any of that.  
  
Eames asks him to love him, and all Arthur says is, no.  
  
This time, his apology doesn't stick in his throat, because he's not sorry, and he has nothing to apologize for. He's not sorry, no, not at all. And the bile that rises in his throat has nothing to do with regret, and the way he almost reaches for brass handle to the door that Eames has just slammed behind him has nothing to do with second thought. He's not sorry.  
  
But he's also a terrible liar.

 

 

 

* * *

   
  
Arthur loves Ariadne until she can't love him anymore.  
  
He's left feeling strangely hollow, as if his insides have been emptied out, as if she's packed them all along with her, and Arthur's just let her have them. He takes up smoking again, a cigarette a day, and keeps the plastic package in a drawer next to his bed, hidden away like some dirty truth he doesn't want the rest of the world to know.   
  
( The truth that maybe he's losing his grip on what's real and what's not, and that his die isn't enough to keep him grounded anymore. )  
  
He shifts on his bed, elbowing the pillow behind him, before he's turning enough that he can reach over and tug open the drawer. Like always, it takes him a minute to wrench it open, because the wheels on the rack stick, and he has to twist onto his belly in order to pull it free. When his fingers grope around blindly, sliding over paper and glossy photographs, he doesn't find the cigarretes.  
  
Instead, he pulls out a note, and it says,  
  
_That'll kill you, you know_


End file.
